


the valley of the moon

by consumptive_sphinx



Category: Glowfic and Related Works, Paris Burning (thecitysmith)
Genre: M/M, Other, Personified Cities, wildfire - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-05 07:42:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18361613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consumptive_sphinx/pseuds/consumptive_sphinx
Summary: Santa Rosa is a young man, and beautiful, dark-haired and dark-eyed and pale as the moon.They love that about him, the tourism boards who put his high-cheekboned face on their advertisements for wine tours, the brewery that asks him to make an appearance for the one week a year they sell a particularly popular beer; the City can’t say no to them, not really, and so he smiles that soft meaningless smile into the camera and says yes, and lets them.They cover up his scars. It’s almost sweet of them — if they’re going to sell Santa Rosa’s pretty face, they might as well do the work of it themselves.





	the valley of the moon

Santa Rosa is a young man, and beautiful, dark-haired and dark-eyed and pale as the moon. 

They love that about him, the tourism boards who put his high-cheekboned face on their advertisements for wine tours, the brewery that asks him to make an appearance for the one week a year they sell a particularly popular beer; the City can’t say no to them, not really, and so he smiles that soft meaningless smile into the camera and says yes, and lets them. It’s hard to slip into anywhere, anymore, with a guard around him 24/7, but he tries. The high schools and the junior college have concerts, plays; he goes as quietly as he can, and makes a point of not reading the Press Democrat articles about his attendance afterwards. 

They cover up his scars. It’s almost sweet of them — if they’re going to sell Santa Rosa’s pretty face, they might as well do the work of it themselves. Nobody knows about the bullet wounds in his side and back; nobody knows about the stretch marks that come with earthquakes. 

He remembers before, but there was never a before, not really — the students at Santa Rosa High School step over the plaque in front of the entryway that says  _ The Native Sons of the Golden West, _ not knowing what it means, and Santa Rosa remembers every immigrant, every Spaniard and Italian and Mexican and Russian and Chinaman who has ever become his child. On some streets there are five churches in three blocks, and none of them preach that he’s a person. 

  
  


And then Santa Rosa burns. 

  
  


For the first two days the firefighters are so overwhelmed with getting people out that they can’t even begin to think about saving structures. Santa Rosa lies in a hospital bed — they’ve evacuated the hospital, they’ve shut down the schools, the Veterans’ Building is a makeshift shelter, they’re handing out smoke masks at every church, an ammunitions shop catches fire and the gunshots sound loud in his ears — and the burns creep up his neck and across his cheek and down his arms and the smoke fills his lungs and he screams and screams and screams — 

  
  


It’s the most destructive natural disaster in California history. Thirty-seven thousand acres burned, not all of it within Santa Rosa city limits but all of it painful; twenty-eight hundred structures burned in Santa Rosa. 

One of the news crews is allowed into the hospital room and suddenly all over the internet are pictures of Coffey Park, decimated with smoke drifting over it, and Fountain Grove, blackened rubble, and Santa Rosa’s burnt face, and the news on the East Coast won’t shut up about the fucking wineries, like the vintners are the ones that have suffered the most, like the most important thing about his city was the  _ wine tours _ and not the people living there, and Santa Rosa throws the tablet against the wall and shatters it and after that they stop giving him news. It isn’t like he needs it; he can feel every building burned, every one of his children struggling to breathe; he can feel how ash falls down over his streets. In a different city it might be mistaken for snow. 

(It would be so (cold), he thinks, and then wonders where that thought came from.) 

He lies in his hospital bed and speaks to nobody and thinks about the Russian River, fast and cold, and about the crews of firefighters sent from other cities. Presumably the other Cities are sending him messages, but he isn’t receiving them just like he isn’t receiving news; he hopes they don’t worry too much, knows they will. 

  
  


Santa Rosa goes out and starts meeting with the humans again as soon as he’s able. It’s good for the city’s image, you see, to have their City standing and speaking to them. (The photographs are careful to only show one half of his face.) Mostly it isn’t a chore. There are students to talk to, grandparents to shake hands with, small children to hug, firefighters to thank for their service. 

One particular firefighter to thank for his service. Who keeps coming up, again and again, when Santa Rosa remembers the fire — the evacuations and the rescues and the collapsing buildings — his name is Marlo. 

He has burn scars too. 

_ The love in the air is thicker than the smoke, _ say Santa Rosa’s children. They don’t know how right they are. 

  
  


Santa Rosa’s children rebuild. His scars get worse before they get better. After just a few months, the wineries want him to pose for advertisements again. (He wonders whether they’ll photoshop over his scars, or whether they’ll use the same angle in every picture they display.) 

And Marlo keeps visiting. Keeps emailing. Santa Rosa can’t say anything meaningful in public but he can complain to Marlo about the news teams, about how obnoxious the Russian River Brewing Company is — no, he  _ can’t _ just put makeup on his scars when he appears at the brewery this year, have you  _ seen _ burn wounds — and Marlo laughs and gossips about the other firefighters and hugs Santa Rosa with the kind of genuine warmth that Santa Rosa hasn’t had in — a long time. A very long time. 

_ Are you okay? _ says the text from Portland.  _ I know they didn’t send aid  _ —  _ or, not nearly enough — _ and that’s close to the limit of what they can say to one another. Santa Rosa doesn’t mention how much aid the Cities in Texas received when their cities flooded, doesn’t mention the people who think it was California’s fault for not chopping down enough of Santa Rosa’s trees. What would be the point? Whether poor Houston flooded or not, Santa Rosa can feel the smoke from Annadel Park in his lungs. Whether poor Houston got money to rebuild or not, Santa Rosa can feel the United States Government waiting, waiting to see whether his children will receive the same. 

They won’t let him leave the city and practically speaking the other Cities need to stay where they are, and they’re watching what the Cities say to each other, have been for decades, and so Santa Rosa can speak of this with Marlo and with nobody else. 

  
  


It’s easy for the trust to build. It’s easy for — hah — the spark to turn into a flame. And Marlo doesn’t flinch from his scars, doesn’t want him for the pretty face on all the billboards. Marlo touches the burned side of his face and talks about the Russian River, fast and cold, talks about the oaks and the vetch and the bay trees, talks about walking in Annadel, talks about the sunset light on Santa Rosa’s hills. He gets a map of Railroad Square tattooed on his hip. 

It isn’t like nobody has written about the beauty of Wine Country and the Sonoma Valley before. But — it’s different when the photographers carefully only take photos of the right side of your face, and there’s someone you trust there in your bed telling you the things he loves about you, and — 

It’s a bad idea for Cities to fall in love with humans. Intellectually, Santa Rosa knows this. 

But Santa Rosa never was a city of intellectuals. 

  
  


When Santa Rosa burned, it was the most destructive natural disaster in California history. 

The next year, Paradise burns, and the fire in Santa Rosa becomes the  _ second _ most destructive natural disaster in California history. 

  
  


They send Marlo, of course they do, he’s a firefighter, and you can’t exactly say “I can’t go, I’m in love with my City,” and he wouldn’t anyway, because he’s Marlo, and Paradise needs him more than Santa Rosa does right now. 

He goes to Paradise, and Santa Rosa misses him desperately, and — 

— and he doesn’t come home. 

  
  


Santa Rosa chokes on his grief as his children choke on the ash, and thinks about Marlo — about light, about sunsets on the hills, about the map of Railroad Square tattooed onto golden skin. About the Russian River, fast and lovely and (cold). About ash that falls like snow. 

_join us,_ say his dreams. _join us join us :))_ and Santa Rosa brushes them aside. 

and brushes them aside again. and again, and again. he’s lonely but he isn’t lonely enough. 

_ join us, _ in spanish, in russian, in italian, in chinese, in pomo, in wappo, in miwok, and santa rosa brushes them all aside. it isn’t marlo. it isn’t the russian river, isn’t — 

—  _присоединяйтесь к нам,_ the dreams say, and _únete a nosotros,_ and _unisciti a noi,_ and  — 

— and it isn’t marlo and marlo is gone and santa rosa knew he would be alone when marlo died cities are immortal and humans are not but did it have to happen so  _ soon _ — 

  
  


it’s so lovely and (cold). 

**Author's Note:**

> :)):)))
> 
>  
> 
> (santa rosa had a particularly cold winter this year.)


End file.
